


The Broken Ones

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Drama, Episode Related, Gap Filler, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-07
Updated: 2004-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-27 03:58:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12073074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: An episode 405 fap-filler that alternates POV between Brian and Justin during and after the Hobbs confrontation.





	The Broken Ones

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Chris Hobbs stole my night. My prom. My dance with Brian. Daphne said it was amazing, how we moved and danced and kissed. It was Brian’s one romantic gesture—sure, he’s done some pretty wonderful things for me since then, but his appearance at the St. James Academy prom was the one self-proclaimed “ridiculously romantic” thing he’s ever done for me. It must have been the best night of my life. 

But I might as well have been in a different time zone, because I will never remember it. Because of Chris Hobbs. 

That first year after the bashing, when I was wondering why Brian wouldn’t “do” picnics on the floor or buy flowers or even provide a decent birthday present that didn’t involve a hustler, I had no kind of precedent for romantic action from Brian because Chris Hobbs stole that precedent from my memory. I didn’t understand that Brian’s love was there in every glance, every word (yes, even in his more snappish words). I just didn’t get it, not like I somehow managed to see it so clearly before the bashing, at least.

Today, when I look at Brian, and someone even mentions that night that would define everything to come after, a light goes out somewhere in his eyes. He’s got it down to a science, fooling everyone else by keeping it nearly imperceptible to the naked eye, but I’m not everyone else. After seeing that light get extinguished for the thousandth time, I finally realize why he doesn’t “do” romance—roses and dances and picnics are rewarded with baseball bats and hospitals and blood. The part that sucks the most is this—even with his fucked-up childhood, Brian still had it in him to be romantic—until I got bashed in the head with a baseball bat as a direct result of his having expressed his love for me. I wish I’d figured that out before I’d run off with Ethan, even though I suppose it doesn’t matter much since Brian and I are back together now. Well, who am I kidding, of course it matters. Things will never be like they were before. Our life together was about to take a serious new direction and Hobbs stole that the second the bat made contact with my head. If I’d known (I mean really known, not just having Daphne tell me. I tell her that describing the dance to me is like telling me about the world’s best steak if I’ve never tasted red meat, and it just doesn’t make sense without having experienced it for oneself.), I never would have left. My world wouldn’t have been this constant jumble of confusion, my view of anything and everything blurred by this panic-driven throbbing pain lodged deep in my gut. I wouldn’t have betrayed Brian’s trust, something I don’t know if I will ever have again totally.

Or maybe I would have left. I don’t know. Chris Hobbs stole my chance to know for sure. 

And I’m not the same person I used to be. I think I ignored that little tidbit for a long time, but more and more the “new” me pervades into my everyday life and I’m understanding that I’m not the same kid who got picked up by Brian Kinney on Liberty Avenue under a streetlight. That kid had principles that didn’t involve using violence as a way to solve (or start) problems. That kid didn’t have panic attacks and nightmares on a routine basis. That kid was persistent and believed in hope and love, and even made Brian Kinney believe in love. Would Brian learn to love—much less love me, all fucked up and nervous and afraid of everything that moves—if I stumbled into his life today? Somehow I doubt it. Even though Brian has finally agreed that we are partners, every single day I’m afraid that he will see the Justin I see every time I look in the mirror. Maybe one day he will, and he’ll kick me out of his life forever. I’m broken now, and it’s Chris Hobbs’ fault.

Let’s not even get into the business with my hand. The point has been belabored by everyone, and the fact that I can’t hold a pencil for more than a few minutes at a time says quite enough. 

But, I digress.

So as I stand over Chris Hobbs now, with Cody egging me on, I really want to pull the trigger of the gun I have shoved in his mouth. I think of all the things he stole from me, and my gimp hand starts to clench up around the gun. All the adrenaline pumping through my veins is sending me into a tailspin of emotion. I think of all the things that I could steal from him, and I take a deep breath, preparing myself for my next move. Chris looks up at me with teary eyes. He’s hyperventilating and I’m fairly positive that he pissed his pants. Everything about him looks so pitiful. He won’t forget this. He won’t ever forget because I’m not going to kill him. Giving him this memory and instilling this fear in his heart is more payback than anything I could accomplish with a Smith and Wesson. I take the gun out of his mouth and tell him to go inside.

As Chris takes off and goes in his house, Cody freaks out and calls me pussy, a scared faggot for not killing Chris when I had my chance. But I don’t care. It’s finished. I have my closure.

* * *

It’s late, Justin’s not home, and I’m fucking worried. Daphne’s visit really put a lot of scary, scary thoughts in my head that I just don’t need there right now. What she said confirms my fears about this Cody kid, the gun, and all of the aggressive behavior—it’s only going to get worse before it gets better. I just know it. Justin hasn’t been “my Justin” recently (I do realize how utterly domestic and lesbionic that sounds, so fuck the hell off). He’s been antagonistic, forceful, and downright mean. He’s gotten violent with me on more than one occasion, leaving me with some pretty rough…let’s call them “love bites”, for lack of a better term. Actually, how about “rough fuck bites”. There. That’s a bit more palatable to me. 

But when was the last time Justin was really “my Justin”? When was the last time he obnoxiously proclaimed his love for me as I tried not to gag? Those were great times. When was the last time he gave me—or anyone else—that Sunshine smile? A real Sunshine smile, not just one of his half-assed attempts to not fall apart. He always looks like he’s on the verge of falling apart nowadays. He thinks he’s got it down to a science, fooling everybody into thinking that he’s okay. But guess what? I’m not everybody. I’m Brian fucking Kinney, and that means that I know Justin fucking Taylor. 

I think of what I could have done or changed to prevent this whole situation, and only one thing comes to mind—my going to Justin’s prom two years ago. In retrospect, that action served as the painfully perfect catalyst to knock down the first of a series of dominoes that comprised everything Justin Taylor had been up until that night. His purity, his hope, his innocence, his naiveté—all gone. He’s broken, and it’s all my fault. I stole something from him, and he can never have it back because I don’t know how to make it better. I do know I still love him, more than I’ll probably ever be able to put into words. I am in love with Justin Taylor. That’s about all I know for sure anymore. 

To avoid putting myself through yet another night of the Brian Kinney One Man Pity Party, I stop pacing through the loft (as I have been doing for the past hour or so, and it’s only eleven o’clock—when was the last time I went to Babylon? Christ, why am I just noticing these things?) and sit down at the computer table. Justin’s graphic design program is already running, and for some stupid irrational reason I feel like if I close the little window, I’ll lose a piece of Justin. So, I leave it running and stare at the picture Justin had been working on before he left for his “evening out” with Cody. It’s an abstract—a mix of blues and oranges—but to me it looks like a black hole that just wants to suck you into its eternity of nothingness. I feel so empty looking at it, like the picture needs my energy to survive. Maybe it’s just surviving. No more, no less. Maybe that’s Justin’s point for this piece. Is this what Justin feels? 

Or, worse yet, is this what I make him feel?

I’m getting far too philosophical for my own good.

I shudder and stand up to go smoke a cigarette by the window. My fingers begin to shake as I fiddle with the lighter, so I finally give up on the stupid thing and throw it across the loft. I hear it clang on the countertop somewhere in the kitchen. This “calming down” idea just isn’t going to fly tonight, is it? I rest my forehead against the window pane and slowly close my eyes, letting the cool glass soothe my pain away. 

Come home, I think, projecting my pleading thoughts out the window and across Pittsburgh, praying that somehow I could actually have Rage’s superpowers for just one night. Just come home. 

* * *

As I slide open the loft door, I try to be as quiet as possible, even though Brian is probably out at Babylon—it is one in the morning on a Saturday night, after all. After I finished with Cody and Chris, I just walked up and down Tremont for a while to clear my head, and before I knew it, it was really late. To my surprise, the TV is on the old movie channel with the volume low in the otherwise dark living room area. It’s odd because Brian doesn’t usually leave things on when he’s out, unlike me—my mother used to follow me around in the house to turn off lights in the rooms I’d left. It was an annoying habit of hers. She really needed a hobby when I was growing up. 

I take a step and I’m startled by a sudden movement coming from the dark floor futon near the TV. Holy crap. Due to the angle I’d been at when I entered the loft, I hadn’t noticed that Brian was laying on the futon. I stand perfectly still, trying to remember the big speech I’d planned out during my walk about how I loved him and wasn’t going to keep doing these stupid things to endanger our relationship because it just wasn’t right. But yea, great, now I’m drawing a big, fat blank. Super.

He sits up straight on the futon and then hops to his feet without any problem—an indicator to me that he’s not had too much Jim Beam tonight, despite the fact that I’ve given him plenty of good reasons to want to drink—and even though I can only see the outline of his standing form in the dark, I can tell he’s looking at me. “How was your night out with Cody?” he asks softly. In his voice I can hear the tension, like he’s walking on eggshells and doesn’t want to piss me off. I guess I have been easy to piss off lately. God, that makes me feel guilty.

“I…uh…” So much for my speech.

Brian noiselessly makes his way over to where I stand by the counter and I think he wants to put his arm around me, but he actually reaches behind me to pick up his lighter that had somehow fallen into the fruit bowl. “I was looking for that,” he mutters, and I can feel his breath close to my face, we’re so close. I’m suddenly reminded of this stupid romance novel Daphne had me read once. It took place in (insert cheesy music here) outer space, and there was this one part where the characters where “millimeters away from each other”. Well, we’re all millimeters away from each other, just some more than others, but at this moment I feel that same overly dramatic, ridiculous kind of sentiment. I imagine Brian in a spacesuit and I just loose it. I start to giggle.

“What?” Brian asks, sounding a little bit annoyed. He snakes his arms around my waist and can’t help but just look at me quizzically and start to smile himself because I’m now laughing like a total idiot.

“Millimeters…hah…we’re millimeters away from each other,” I manage to snort out.

“Right.” 

“No, look.” I make a measure with my index fingers of the distance between our faces. “Millimeters.”

“Are you high?”

“No, no, I’m just…I don’t know what it is. It’s just funny, is all.” I tone down the hysterical laughter to a big, stupid smile. Brian just looks at me, and I see a glimmer of something in his eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time, but I’m not entirely sure what it is. He gives me a lopsided kind of half-smile and pulls me towards the bedroom because it’s late and Brian probably figures I’m just giddy enough to be fucked senseless into the bed. It’s funny, I feel so liberated. I feel like the doors to all the happy rooms in my mind have been reopened, and the world finally makes sense again. Maybe, just maybe, we’re not so broken after all.


End file.
